


as if everything is more than itself

by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes



Category: Merlin (TV), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, M/M, prince geralt, sorcerer jaskier, this is the dumbest fic ive ever written but its making me laugh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22535338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes/pseuds/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes
Summary: When Jaskier goes down to visit the dragon later that night, he seems rather smug with how things’ve gone.“I don’t like him,” he protests, chin propped in his hand. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of Prince you could fall in love with, you know? He sounds like the kind of Prince who might behead you for breathing.”“Be that as it may,” the dragon says, not denying it, “he is your destiny.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 97
Kudos: 510





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeah
> 
> you dont have to have watched merlin to read this!!! although i highly recommend it, because merlin slaps

The moment Jaskier is born, it is said, magic began to sing.

It’s rather overlooked by all who are actually there. His mother holds her screaming newborn for the first time and he cries so hard every window in their home shatters, which takes some precedent. 

Ealdor is not strictly against magic, being in Cendred’s kingdom- sorcerers drop through on occasion, and there’s no real chance of being put to death by the king. But it is still magic, and her little boy’s eyes glow gold when he laughs, and so she tucks him away safe. 

The moment Jaskier is born, it is said, magic began to sing. When he turns six, he begins to sing as well. Sweet, wild songs, only half-human- her little boy is more than that. He is ancient and he is magic, and she gives him a lute and kisses his forehead. He is so much, her Jaskier- so bright, so happy, so energetic. So lonely, but she cannot let him outside for fear of him being stolen away. 

When he is eighteen years old, he has fled from the house so many times she sends him off with a kiss and her blessing. He will learn. 

-

Jaskier’s technical title is Julien Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Ealdor. He is much more commonly known as “oi, bard!” or “you there, with the lute”. His mother’s called him Jaskier since he was a baby, because of the golden-yellow his eyes flash when he does magic. He’s making a round-about trip up to Camelot. He knows, vaguely, what will await him there- an uncle, more secrets- but he stops in every tavern he can find, drawing it out. It’s a lovely journey, even though he has to walk all by himself and camp on the ground. 

Currently, he’s regaling a group of unwashed farmers with a song made up on the spot; he thinks it’s nice enough, but popular opinion apparently points otherwise. 

“Abort yourself,” calls a man who looks and smells like he hasn’t scrubbed his bits possibly ever. 

“Oi,” Jaskier says, catching the scraps of bread thrown at him neatly- it’s a bit of a struggle to keep from freezing them with magic, but he’s had plenty of practice. A carrot, soggy with stew, smacks him in the cheek, and he glares. “ _ Oi _ , fuck off, I’m so glad I can bring you all together like this, for god’s sake-” 

He wades through some more verbal abuse to cower by the side of the only people who aren’t yelling at him, a group of stern looking men in black and red. They’re sulking in a corner, and their armour looks expensive. 

“Fuck off, bard,” rumbles one of them. Jaskier, who’d been hoping for some sympathy, loses his grin. 

“Not a single shred of decency in any of you lot,” he grumbles. There’s a sword at his throat in an instant, and he goes cross eyed trying to see it. 

“Have some respect for your prince,” snaps one of the men. 

Jaskier freezes, and does a bit of review. 

Right. 

So he’s a sorcerer, not that they know that bit; sorcery is punishable by death in Camelot, and he’d crossed into their borders a week ago; he’d apparently just been a bit rude to the Crown Prince Geralt of Camelot, who looks a bit like a grumpy god with gold eyes and is drinking piss-poor ale in a dirty little tavern. Not the worst scrape he’s ever been in. He laughs, putting up his hands uncomfortably. 

“ _ Sword- _ oh, right, there’s- well, excuse me, your liege, your-” fuck. Has he ever met a royal? What the fuck is he supposed to call him? Jaskier racks his brains and comes up, inadvisably, with a song. “Witcher, Prince / Lover fair / He of yellow eyes and hair-” 

“Fuck off, bard,” Crown Prince Geralt of Camelot says again, with apparently little enough urgency that the sword at his throat is lowered. 

“You can’t just go pointing swords at people,” snaps Jaskier when he’s skipped far enough away. The sword’s raised again, threateningly, and so he makes a hasty escape. 

What good is being a fucking magician if he’s not allowed to use his magic to not-die? It’s unfair. But, like, he  _ did _ meet the prince, which should make an alright song. What rhymes with arrogant asshole with ten bodyguard knights? 

-

Here’s the deal with Camelot: 

The whole extended royal family is made up of Witchers. It makes some sense when you think about it, because it’s generally a good thing for your kings to be strong and pragmatic and a tiny bit ruthless. In the old stories the Witchers had magic of their own, spells and potions they could use to aid in fights, but now all their strength and proficiency comes from the mutagens. 

Crown Prince Geralt had been born a Witcher, impossibly. His mother, the Queen Visenna, had died in the process, and his father King Korin had gone a bit mad with the grief. It’s said that the reason Prince Geralt turned out the way he did was due to dark magic, and so King Korin had banned magic from Camelot permanently. 

Jaskier, personally, thinks it’s a load of horse shit. Just because one Prince was born with scary eyes- just because one woman died, even if she  _ was _ the queen- hundreds upon thousands of magic users had been put to death with no trial. He’s been terrified his whole life of being found out, locked away in a stupid little room with only his power to keep him company. 

Still. 

There are things in the world he cannot hope to change, and this is one of them. He’ll just keep his fingers crossed that he isn’t found out in the first week. 

-

It must be said he has possibly the worst luck of anybody in the world. A long history of unfortunate trysts and then unfortunate meetings with jilted lovers would, he thinks, be sufficiently enough to prove it, but that would be indicative of good luck so the universe shoves some more shit in his face. 

-

An overview of his arrival in Camelot: he sees some poor sorcerer get beheaded, accidentally partakes in an angry mob, meets his uncle (who has no idea who he is for a solid half hour), accidentally performs magic in front of his uncle (and gets soundly and  _ loudly _ tongue-lashed), gets semi-bullied into becoming a physician’s assistant (gross), and is accosted on his way to the tavern by a group of Witchers who don’t take kindly to his sparkling charm. 

A clarification to make is that his uncle is apparently the Court Physician. His name is Gaius and he seems perfectly charming, except for that he’s terrifying, has an eyebrow that is possibly more terrifying, and he’s already threatened to beat Jaskier over the head with his own lute if he composes a song about the fucking eyebrow. He’d told him that if he wanted the quarters he’d have to work for them, and Jaskier had agreed without a single thought running through his head but “oh, fuck”, and now he has to learn about herbs and illnesses and all sorts of nasty things. Jaskier has a delicate constitution, probably. Just the idea is giving him the sniffles. 

Another clarification (or possibly just a fun fact) is that before this month, he’d never met a Witcher in his life. They either stick to Camelot or ride around in grumpy packs, dispatching monsters and clearing out the fancy alcohol in any town they happen to stop in. Jaskier doesn’t have anything against Witchers, per say (except they’re all noble prats who think the sun shines out of their arsehole and that everyone else in the entire world is beneath them) but his opinion is steadily souring. 

In the stories of old, Witchers are either monsters or great chivalrous knights. In Camelot, it looks like Witchers are just terribly annoying. Not that you can say that, or they’ll behead you. Such is life. Unfortunately for him, he’s not a master of minding his tongue. So when he’s bumped into by a great hoard of (read: three, but they  _ are _ absolutely enormous) Witchers, he’s immediately bristling. 

“ _ Watch _ it, pricks,” he says, brandishing his lute like that’ll do any good. He’d almost been sent to the ground, and that would be just awful for the delicate instrument and his delicate palms. 

The Witchers turn. Jaskier, unfortunately, recognizes one of them, and he closes his eyes for a long moment and tries to tell his heart to maybe settle down. Nope- he’s still pissed as hell, even though there’s a hearty shock of cold fright dousing the flame. 

“Care to repeat yourself?” says  _ fucking _ Crown Prince Geralt of  _ fucking _ Camelot, because of course, because Jaskier’s life is a shitty song with a tragic ending for the fool. Still- everyone’s watching, and if he’s going to go out he’ll go out with a bang.

“I said watch it, prick,” Jaskier says, cheerfully enough. “Perhaps you couldn’t hear me over the sound of your manly swagger?” 

The Witcher to his right raises his eyebrows. There’s a lot of eyebrow to raise, but it’s not necessarily a bad look on him. Actually, the three of them are rather unfortunately attractive. Jaskier decides not to notice it. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” 

He makes a show of looking them up and down, letting his eyes linger on the fucking enormous shoulders and their strange golden eyes. “How _ ever _ could I guess,” he drawls, hand a tight fist on the neck of his lute. “Do please enlighten me.” 

The flanking Witchers step forward, but Prince Geralt holds out a hand, looking bored. “Don’t,” he says, calmly- Jaskier has the uncomfortable feeling those yellow eyes are measuring him for all he’s worth, and finding him lacking. “I’d suggest running along, bard. Don’t get in over your head.” 

So he does remember him! That’s a little gratifying, or it would be if Jaskier didn’t feel like he might vibrate apart with the force of his indignance. Maybe literally, if his magic is anything to go by- he feels it hot and buzzing right in his fingertips, aching to burst out and show them he can hold his own. “Maybe you should take your own advice,” he snaps. 

Prince Geralt’s lips curl, just barely, and one eyebrow lifts. “I could take you apart with one blow.” 

“I could take you apart with less that that,” Jaskier says, which is silly for a bard to say and less silly for a super powerful sorcerer. Except no one knows he’s a super powerful sorcerer, so he just looks like a bit of a twat.

Prince Geralt laughs and draws his sword, and Jaskier snarls back and brandishes his lute. He’s been in his fair share of barfights- how bad could this be?

A stupid idea, in retrospect. Even though he cheats a little with magic and the overturning of a barrel of… maybe cabbages? He’s still caught by both arms, given a sound whack on the head with the flat of the royal sword, and dragged protesting to the stocks. They leave him his lute, though, right at his feet, and he kicks anyone who threatens to come near. Small mercies. 

When he sulks back to his room- his room paid for in  _ blood _ , mind you, because he has to scrub Gaius’s floors, because  _ apparently _ Camelot isn’t already hellish enough- he’s got rotten tomato in his hair and his silk doublet is absolutely ruined. 

“You shouldn’t be wearing silks as my apprentice anyway,” Gaius says, ruthlessly. Jaskier glares. 

All this in the first day. Jaskier had spent the majority of his life locked in his room back at home, except for when he could sneak out, and he’s feeling incredibly overwhelmed. Also, his bed is really rather awful. It’s small and hard and there’s no pillow and a rag for a blanket. 

-

And then the dragon. Because Jaskier’s life is a fucking tragedy. At least he’s not woken up in the middle of the night by some bastard yelling in his head, because he can’t sleep, due to the terrible bed.

-

Listen. Jaskier is all for adventuring, but nearly everything he’s done since he got to Camelot has been treasonous, illegal, or boring. He’s not sure which of the former categories this particular activity falls into, but then he’s pretty busy trying not to scream. 

“You’re a dragon,” he says, not for the first time. 

“I’d noticed,” says the dragon, dryly. “Are you ready to hear your destiny?” 

“No thank you,” Jaskier says, politely, and then he goes back up to his room.

-

Dragons are, apparently, persistent. He’s babbled at for a week straight before he stomps back down to what’s sort of a dungeon and sort of mostly an enormous underground cave. 

“What do you want,” he asks, despairingly. He’s not a huge fan of holding torches- they’re so big, and they crackle so close to his hair- so his entire body’s just glowing like a candle. It probably makes him look cool and heroic. 

“You look like a fool, young warlock,” says the dragon. 

“Just-  _ hey _ ! Just tell me about my destiny, good  _ god _ .” 

“I’m not quite a god,” says the dragon cheerfully. Jaskier makes a threatening gesture that might land better if he wasn’t lit up like a candelabra. “Fine. You have a great destiny awaiting you. One half of a coin, you are.” 

“Grand,” says Jaskier gloomily. Was it too much to hope that maybe in Camelot he’d do a bit of lazing around? Songwriting? Schmoozing, even? 

“And stop sleeping with the nobles,” the dragon adds. “It’ll get you beheaded.” 

Again, his life is a fucking tragedy. 

-

Jaskier is, really, a hero. 

For several reasons. He looks very heroic, for one. He writes some lovely immortalizing songs. And, oh yeah, he’d completely saved Prince Geralt’s life, how’s that? 

The aforementioned beheading in the courtyard had, apparently, been attended by the sorcerer’s mum. He really can feel some sympathy for her when she goes a bit mad, but personally he’d go the route of not trying to kill the Prince, who had literally nothing to do with it. He tells her such while she’s busy singing and everyone else is busy sleeping and being covered in cobwebs for some fucking reason. 

“It just- why not go for the king?” he asks, picking his way around a whole pile of motionless servants. 

“I,” says the witch, thinking about it- then she raises her finger triumphantly. “My son died, so I’ll kill Korin’s son!” 

“I guess that’s fair,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. “Still, though, apparently my destiny says I can’t let you do that, so-  _ hey,  _ woah !” 

She throws a dagger at him. He lets it clatter to the floor with some super well timed magic, right in the middle of Camelot’s grand feasting hall. Everyone’s asleep, but it’s still a bit of a rush. Then she turns and throws a dagger at Prince Geralt, who looks rather poetic sleeping with his chin tucked down to his chest and his golden circlet nestled in his hair. 

It’s a bit of a blur. Jaskier drops a chandelier on the witch, not even on purpose, and leaps to shove Prince Geralt out of the way. When he’s back on his feet, dazed, everyone's awake and King Korin is shaking his hand enthusiastically. 

“You’ve saved my son,” he declares. “For your loyalty to the crown, I’ll make you my son’s manservant!” 

“No thank you,” Jaskier and Geralt both say at exactly the same time- they glance at each other. Korin’s smile widens. 

-

When Jaskier goes down to visit the dragon later that night, he seems rather smug with how things’ve gone. 

“I don’t like him,” he protests, chin propped in his hand. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of Prince you could fall in love with, you know? He sounds like the kind of Prince who might behead you for breathing.” 

“Be that as it may,” the dragon says, not denying it, “he is your destiny.” 

When he goes up to his stupid tower room to his stupid tower bed, at least, he’s tired enough to go to sleep immediately. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier is not cut out to be a servant. He doesn’t have the deferiental temperament, and he’s rubbish at cleaning things. Also, he’s already a  _ very _ successful bard.

That, unfortunately, doesn’t stop the king. He’s promoted within the hour, and the next morning he’s set to wake Prince Geralt at dawn and get him ready for his day. He isn’t late, and that’s about the only thing he does right. 

Or, well- he’s a little late, actually. 

The day’s a bit of a blur. He wakes up Prince Geralt, stands around, and is told in no uncertain tones that if he doesn’t fetch breakfast right now it’ll be the stocks for him. Then he gets lost on his way to the kitchen.  _ Then _ he runs into a rather lovely serving girl who gives him the eyes, and he gives  _ her _ the eyes, and they get a bit caught up in each other. By the time he’s back with the royal breakfast, it’s gone cold and the Prince’s gaze has gone all stormy. 

He’s never put on armour in his life, either, so that’s an adventure to figure out. And then he’s sort of beaten on at the practice fields, which Jaskier personally thinks might be some form of servant abuse. 

“Hm,” says the Prince, illuminatingly. Jaskier sighs, and holds up the stupid shield higher. He has bruises on his shoulders, somehow. Like, the joints. He didn’t know someone could get those. 

After that, it’s some more unhappy running around, this time for Gaius. He considers telling everyone he’s technically a noble so they can’t treat him like this, but that seems like it might be rude to all the actual peasants and also he’s trying to reinvent himself, thanks, so he sticks with it. 

-

Prince Geralt is… well, he’s a lot. He’s very quiet, surprisingly, and very broody, with the expected temper. The king’s ward, Yennefer, is also very tempermental, and Jaskier decides he hates her after she gives him one too many haughty looks. The king is frankly terrifying, so Jaskier tries to avoid him as much as he possibly can. 

Triss, Yennefer’s lady-in-waiting, however- she’s sweet. Jaskier bumps into her full body, spilling an entire bucket of chicken bones Gaius had told him to gather, and they spend approximately half an hour commiserating (he does love a good commiseration). She informs him that yes, it’s always going to be like this, and he pretends to impale himself on the Prince’s sword, and she laughs politely. It’s rather kind of her. 

“I really don’t know how to do any of this,” he confesses, unhappily. “How am I supposed to make a bed?”

Triss squints at him. “You don’t know how to make a bed? How have you possibly gone this far without making a bed?” 

Jaskier shrugs charmingly, and then she leaves him, which he supposes means he has to figure it out by himself. 

And the  _ feasts _ . They have a lot of feasts, do the Witchers. Hardly a fortnight after the one with the witch-lady is another one in celebration of the union of two kingdoms, blah blah blah. Jaskier isn’t really listening. He’s in a state of horrified delight over what he’s supposed to wear, actually. 

“I really have to put this on?” he asks. The ensemble is actually quite beautiful, if you ignore the enormous plume of feathers on the hat. 

“Hm,” says the Prince smugly, which means yes. Probably. Jaskier darts a look over at him- he’s all dressed up in a fancy red shirt and fancy breeches and fancy shoes (with buckles!). No feathers, but the red is the same. It looks stunning against his white hair.

“Oh, sire, we’ll  _ match _ !” 

“Hm,” says the Prince with markedly less enthusiasm. 

-

The feast is upsetting in that he has to stand in a corner, holding a jug of wine he can’t drink and listening to a second-rate bard absolutely butcher some songs. 

“He has no passion,” he laments to Triss, who is standing beside him in a normal person’s dress and without a hat. She’s taken his outfit in stride, not even blinking. “This sounds like a funeral march. I really- he hardly tuned his lute, this doesn’t seem like something people should be subjected to. This is cruel and unusual!” He emphasizes this with a slosh of the wine jug. 

“Hmm,” she says, sympathetically. Everyone in this fucking kingdom is so  _ nonverbal _ . “Well, I suppose that-” 

“Jaskier,” murmurs someone at his elbow- when he whips around, sloshing his wine again, the serving girl he’d bumped into a couple days ago is there. “Could you come outside with me for a moment?” 

Generally this means he’ll be getting laid, but they’re both on-duty servants and more importantly she looks like someone killed her dog right in front of her. He passes off his jug and wanders out after her. 

“The Prince’s wine is poisoned,” she tells him, sounding near tears. Jaskier squints at her. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I saw the king slip something into the Prince’s goblet,” she says, tragically. She has some really lovely blue eyes, and she’s also in a normal outfit. Luckily Jaskier’s not in the business of being self conscious. He pats down a plume on his hat and returns to the matter at hand.

“Are you- are you sure? Because that, you know, that seems like an act of war, and-” 

“His goblet is  _ poisoned _ ,” she repeats, emphatically. He sighs, and he swears he hears the dragon nattering on about destiny in his head. 

“Oh, for god’s- alright, give me a moment.” 

He bursts back in dramatically, just as they’re about to toast. The goblet is already at the Prince’s lips, and he takes a brief moment to imagine how much trouble he’d be in if he just let the Prince die. He’s thinking a lifetime in the stocks, maybe, or being beheaded, or more likely the dragon would set him on fire. 

“Stop!” 

Everyone turns to look at him. Jaskier hasn’t developed self consciousness in the last five minutes, so he’s fine. More importantly, the Prince lowers his goblet and the bard (thank god) stops playing. He takes the moment of stunned silence to grab the cup from Geralt. 

“The Prince’s wine is poisoned,” he announces, grandly, and does a bit of goblet gesturing. Prince Geralt raises an eyebrow. Both kings look furious. He’s vaguely aware that this feast marks the end of war between the two kingdoms, or maybe the signing of a treaty, or something like that. Maybe he should pay more attention if he’s going to go about saving royal lives. 

“How dare you,” snaps the other king (should Jaskier know his name?). “I would never-” 

“Forgive him, my lord,” the Prince says, lazily. “He’s a bit, shall we say-” 

“On what grounds,” cuts through King Korin, icily, “do you base your accusation?” 

Jaskier swallows. There are rather a lot of swords half drawn right now. “He was seen lacing it.” 

“By whom?” 

Oh, fuck. Jaskier has no idea what her name is- also, he has a feeling he’d be throwing her under a stampede if he did say. He’s very noble and brave, so he steels himself. “I can’t tell you that.” 

Geralt raises his other eyebrow, trying to take the goblet back. “Jaskier-” 

“I did not poison the wine,” the other king says confidently. Jaskier begins to feel like maybe he’s made a mistake. 

“No, really, I can prove it,” he says, recklessly, and then he tosses the goblet back in one practiced swallow. 

Everyone stares. There’s a long silence. Jaskier’s self consciousness gives a little wriggle in the way back corner of his brain, like it’s going to make an appearance. He viciously tamps it down and fights the urge not to teleport away in a cloud of smoke. He doesn’t actually know how to do it, but his magic is suggesting they learn.

“Guards,” King Korin starts, and then when Jaskier really feels like it’s all been embarrassing enough his throat slams closed like a drawbridge. He makes a choking noise, and goes swooning to the floor. It’s good in that he didn’t just make a fool of himself in front of two royal courts, and bad in that he’s definitely dying. 

“Fuck,” says Geralt, under his breath. 

Then he passes out, and there’s nothing at all. 

-

Jaskier has strange dreams. 

Murky flashes- he feels like he’s swimming through syrup. Everything is very hot and very cold all at once, and he can feel his magic frightened and trapped and swirling in his belly. 

He knows that he’s dying. It’s a fact that weighs heavy in the back of his head, on the tip of his tongue. It is a detached sort of knowing, and it frightens him but only to the point where he can comprehend it. Past that it’s a blankness, and he breathes with it, slowly. 

Jaskier has strange dreams. He is dying, and he is following the Prince as he rides his chestnut mare to a cave. The serving girl is there. Her red-painted lips twist cruelly, and it makes something in Jaskier’s chest twist as well. The Prince is stiff with tension, and he is trapped on a crumbling ledge reaching for a flower. It is dark. 

Jaskier wants to help. His magic is swirling in his belly. He wants to help. He  _ needs _ to help. 

He is dying. He can feel himself, hot and cold. His heart pounds in his chest, faster and faster, and Geralt is riding home. 

The king is angry. Both kings are angry. There might be war. He feels a song on his lips, bubbling, ready to scream. 

-

He’s a little surprised when he opens his eyes, it must be said. He’s even more surprised when he opens his eyes and sees Triss, Gaius, and the Crown Prince Geralt of Camelot standing over him. 

“Er,” he says, intelligently. “Hello?” 

“Hello,” says Triss politely. It really does appear she’s polite out of instinct, which is something Jaskier sort of wishes he could learn and knows he will not. 

“Hello,” rumbles Crown Prince Geralt of Camelot. 

“You fool,” snaps Gaius. It’s a bit of a relief, actually, because Jaskier was feeling far too comfortable and looked after. 

“Be nice to me, I almost died,” he says, plaintively. “Uh- how did I not die?” 

It’s a bit of a story. Apparently the serving girl was actually Nimueh, and when he lets on that he has absolutely no clue who she is he’s privy to a few disbelieving looks. 

“She’s a sorcerer,” Gaius says, gravely. “A powerful one. She tried to poison the prince.” 

“That’s a shame,” Jaskier says, lying back down. 

Geralt had ridden out to find the antidote, against his father’s wishes. It all sounds very dramatic. 

“That’s very brave! I’ll write a song about it,” he says, pleased. 

“No,” choruses the whole group. 

And then two days later he has to go back to work, because life is a neverending fucking slog onwards. 

-

Maybe Geralt isn’t the worst in the world. 

Sure, he’s an asshole. And spoiled, definitely. Rude, dismissive, kind of pompous. Thoughtless, generally. Maybe a little bloodthirsty? A massive slob. Every morning he entirely strips his bed and tosses everything on the floor. 

But he’s kind underneath everything. Like, deep underneath. Deep, deep underneath. Jaskier could swear it’s there, really, if you know where to look. He has a bit of complex about it, presumably because he’s a big tough Witcher Prince surrounded by other big tough Witchers, but Jaskier is effortlessly charming and entertaining and wonderful, so he can coax it out of him. 

“You saved my life because you really like me,” he says, smugly. He’s learning, slowly, how to make a bed, which involves a lot of fluffing pillows. (He’d actually thought pillows just stayed fluffed, but the world apparently rests on the back of poor servants like him.) 

“Hm,” says Geralt. He’s sitting in his desk chair, looking without much interest over grain reports or something equally boring. Jaskier fluffs another pillow. 

“It’s okay, your Witcher-ness,” he says, charmingly. Entertainingly. Wonderfully. “I also saved your life, but it’s alright that you didn’t say thank you. I-” 

“Jaskier?” says Crown Prince Geralt of Camelot. Jaskier beams. He’s in!

“Yes, sire?” 

“Shut up.” 

Deep, deep underneath, he’s kind. Jaskier just  _ knows _ it. He fluffs another pillow, and draws in a breath to speak. 

“You didn’t have to drink the wine,” Geralt snaps. His brows furrow. 

“I- excuse me? What, were you going to drink it? It was  _ poisoned _ !” 

“No one had to drink the wine!” the Prince says, with the air of someone who’s been thinking it for several days but didn’t want to say anything. “Why would you drink clearly poisoned wine?” 

Jaskier gapes at him. “What- so I was supposed to slam in there, accuse a king of treason, and what, pour the evidence on the floor?” 

“No,” Geralt says, stubbornly. “But I’m sure Gaius could’ve figured it out. Or Yennefer- she’s good with potions.” 

“But I saved your life twice,” Jaskier says, a little plaintively. 

“That’s not in your job description. Just-” Geralt gestures around the chambers. There’s a bit of a mess, but to be fair it’s only Jaskier’s second week and he was indisposed with poisoning for half of the time. “learn how to fucking clean, okay?” 

He takes it back. Geralt’s the worst. 

-

Well. 

Geralt’s okay, actually. 

Jaskier goes hunting with him, which means he trots along beside the Prince and his horse (Roach, her name is, and she hates everything in the world besides Geralt) and tows back whatever he kills. Geralt hunts alone, and he hunts for the kitchen, so at least it’s not needless killing for the sake of it. 

Jaskier has not snuck his lute along this time, because the last time he’d been smacked in the head with it. Apparently he’s scaring all the animals away, or something, which is patently ridiculous because all animals love him. (Is it cheating if animals are naturally drawn to his presence? Will Geralt notice the little flood of woodland critters that scurry along with them? Yes to the first, probably, and almost definitely no to the second. Geralt’s not stupid, but he’s not the most observant and in-tune person in the world.) 

He’s been his manservant for three months now, and has saved his life a truly ridiculous amount of times. Personally, if Jaskier had a vendetta for Camelot he’d go after the king, but it really looks like Geralt’s gotten the short end of the stick. 

“That’s treason,” says Geralt, sounding all stern and grumbly. “You can’t say you’d kill the king.” 

“I’m not saying  _ I _ would,” protests Jaskier- he’s hopping about in the underbrush, trying to scare away the bunnies that have wandered too close. “I’m just saying that all the sorcerers seem to go after you, and you’re not even the one who banned magic!” 

“Hm,” says Geralt, then: “rather good luck I’ve been having with sorcerers, lately.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Jaskier says immediately and breezily, and then winces because yeah, he would know, even if he hadn’t been saving Geralt’s fucking life. He’d been there. “I’ve plenty of material for the sonnets, that’s for certain!” 

“Hm.” Geralt does some hacking through shrubs. “There’s a drowner in the lake. Stay back while I take care of it.” 

“Or it’ll drown me,” Jaskier agrees, nodding sagely. 

It doesn’t drown Jaskier. It  _ does _ nearly drown Geralt, but just as he’s thinking he might have save his life (again) the Witcher comes bursting out of the water, covered in guts. 

He sighs. “I suppose that means you’ll be wanting a bath?” 

-

Baths are a process. Jaskier had taken baths for granted, definitely. 

The Prince is a bit of a fiend for baths, it turns out. Royal baths consist of twenty buckets of water, lugged painstakingly up several flights of stairs. If he didn’t have magic, he’d probably get callouses on his  _ palms _ . As it is, his arms are aching as he sits cross-legged by the tub, serenading Geralt as he grumpily soaps the guts out of his hair. 

“Hair and heir could be a good rhyme,” Jaskier says, thoughtfully. “Do you think?” 

“Why can’t you ever just do your job,” Geralt says, in a longsuffering sort of way. Jaskier strums out a chord, furrowing his brows. 

“I’ll have you know I’ve been doing my job all day and we both need a break!” 

The Prince doesn’t look like he has much to say to that. It’s a good thing, because Jaskier doesn’t have any other arguments. They sit quietly for the next few minutes as he tries to work out the lyrics to his song, the only sounds soft chords, muttered curses, and the gentle splash of water. 

-

So- yeah. Deep, deep down, Geralt’s alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok well thus far this is plotless but im going to blame it on doing exposition and next chapter i WILL have a plot being set up. pinkie promise


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier thinks- 

And this is very possible and very true, almost definitely- 

Jaskier thinks that Camelot is the worst fucking place in the world. Ever, probably. 

That’s saying something. He’d once spent three full days locked in a particularly smelly bedchamber with a particularly smelling lordling. He’d once slept in a cave. He’d woken up prone and deeply hungover in a puddle of what he optimistically thinks might’ve been mud and realistically thinks was shit. 

But he didn’t have to scrub  _ floors _ in his puddle of shit. He didn’t have to empty chamber pots. He didn’t have to not eat lovely Royal Breakfasts and settle for lumpy porridge. Camelot is a test of wills and he is slowly but steadily bending. His shit puddle was peaceful. 

Jaskier… needs to work on his analogies. That would make a truly awful song. 

_ There once was a lovely bard / Magic at his fingertips / Sleeping in a puddle / Of human shit. _

“Excuse me?” says Geralt, who has been unnervingly silent on his horse for the past hour. Jaskier jumps so hard he almost tosses his lute into the surrounding trees. 

“My  _ god _ , sire, you can’t just- you can’t just startle me like that!” 

“I’ve been here the whole time,” Geralt points out. “You’re following me. It’s not my fault if you forget I’m here.” 

“But-” 

“Maybe cut the magic bit,” the Prince suggests evenly. Jaskier goes pale and tries to hide his face with his hair, even though he’d just had it trimmed. 

“I, uh. It was just- about someone I met once? In… my travels. Of which I have had many.” 

“Hm,” says Geralt, which means the conversation's probably over. Except, unexpectedly: “a bard with magic, who slept in a puddle of shit?” 

“He was an awful bard,” Jaskier says, immediately. That should alleviate any suspicion it might be him, although it pains him to say it. “Truly no passion. Probably because of the… the evil magic.” 

“Why was he in the puddle of shit,” Geralt asks after a long moment, sounding reluctantly curious. 

“How should I know?” Jaskier says, indignantly. “It’s not as though I poked him awake or anything. If I had to guess I’d say he lost a drinking game and was terribly hungover. He was missing his boots and everything. Swindled!” 

Geralt doesn’t respond, which is probably good. Jaskier plays a minor chord, because the weather is absolute shit and his cloak is getting all soggy. 

They’re on their way back from an adventure. A hunt, the Prince had called it, but Jaskier thinks adventure sounds much more romantic. A wraith had been terrorizing all over the place, eating people and moaning or something. (Jaskier has been promising himself he’ll get on remembering what in fuck’s sweet name everything’s called and what they all do, but he’s really been so busy. And more importantly, there’s so many of them. There’s ghouls and there’s aghouls, and those are apparently different things!)

He still doesn’t have a horse, which is terrible for all reasons except that his legs are looking incredible. Still, his feet hurt. 

“Can we stop at a tavern for the night?” he asks, beseechingly. Geralt, who has a heart hidden beneath twenty layers of armour and snarly scruffiness, agrees. 

The tavern is nice and warm, and all conversation stops when they walk in which is always fun. Jaskier waves cheerfully and then brandishes his lute as Geralt goes to find a table. He hasn’t had a chance to really sing in  _ ages _ . 

“Oh fishmonger,” he begins, and then someone slams in through the doors and everyone goes quiet  _ again _ . Is that a respect thing? Respect is cutting his song short.

“Pay up, madame,” snarls the man. He looks like a bit of a thug, and he’s got more thugs flanking him.

“Piss off,” says the barmaid, clutching a tankard to her chest. There’s a long pause. Geralt stands in the corner. Jaskier ineffectively readies his lute. 

“Fuck it,” says a cheerful voice somewhere to Jaskier’s right- a man pushes back from his chair with a screech and has a little stretch. He’s got a scruffy beard and really lovely brown hair, and he’s probably about as tall as Geralt. The golden eyes mark him as a Witcher. “I don’t think we’re gonna go in for that, mate.” 

The thug looks a little startled at this show of defense- the barmaid is trying to not look surprised, like this was her plan all along. “Yeah,” she pipes up, and Jaskier shoots her a grin. She’s pretty, really. 

Another long pause. Jaskier begins to feel as though he should say something. “So are you, like- are you trying to shake her down? Just rob a noble like the rest of us.” 

“Jaskier,” says Geralt warningly. The Witcher to Jaskier’s right claps him on the shoulder. 

“Oh, good man. I’m Gwaine, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Jaskier, hello!” They shake hands. The entire room is still completely silent. Gwaine sighs. 

“Can we get on with it?” 

The thugs roar and charge. Their lot charges back with less roaring. It’s invigorating, and they get chased around, and Jaskier sends a whole stack of plates into someone’s face with very clever and well thought through magic (he mostly just panics, actually). He’s not entirely sure how long the fight lasts, but when he comes to he’s standing over the lead thug and whacking him full in the face with his lute. He has hay in his boots, for some reason. 

“I think that’ll do it, mate,” Gwaine observes from over his shoulder- there’s hay in his hair as well. Jaskier steps back as delicately as he can manage, smoothing down his shirt. 

“Sorry, that was- I guess it was bloodlust? Thank you for your help,” he says, as pompous and courtly as he can manage, and then they’ve got their tongues in each other’s mouths. Adrenaline, it is. Geralt sighs. 

“Could you please-” 

Jaskier considers magicking him out of the room, but figures that’ll probably get him beheaded. As it is, he’s trying not to make embarrassing noises with Gwaine’s hand grasping at his ass. “Oh, god,  _ fine- _ Geralt, this is Gwaine. Gwaine, this is Crown Prince Geralt of Camelot.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” they say in grumpy unison, both sounding a little bit disgusted by each other. Jaskier squeaks as his ass is squeezed, and Geralt narrows his eyes. 

“Could you give us ten minutes?” he asks, charmingly. 

“Ten minutes?” says Gwaine, wickedly. 

“Hm,” says Geralt, already going to the barmaid to help her put her tables to rights. They skip outside and Jaskier sucks him off with the vigor of youth or something like that. Gwaine is a tender lover but he pulls delightfully on Jaskier’s hair when he comes, and then he pulls Jaskier up with a really wonderful display of strength and pins him against the wall and- yeah. Gwaine’s a good sort of guy, really. 

He’s licking his lips when he wanders back inside to find Geralt. “Can we keep him?” 

“No,” says Geralt. Jaskier sighs, swinging his lute strap over his shoulder- then he has a brilliant idea.

“Hey, Gwaine. Do you want to be a knight?” 

“Of Camelot?” Gwaine makes a face, showing off his sharp eyeteeth. Jaskier shivers delightfully, and Gwaine sends him a roguish grin. “I’m no noble.” 

“That’s not a problem! There’s this guy, Lancelot, and Geralt was all for knighting him.” Lancelot had also been a tender lover, all shy but strangely growl-y when you really got down to it. Jaskier remembers him fondly. 

“No,” interrupts Geralt. “My father won’t allow it.” 

“Daddy knows best,” intones Gwaine, wisely. Geralt glowers, flicking a dismissive look up and down his body. 

“Griffin, are you?” 

  
“Wolf,” Gwaine returns, coolly. “Surprised to see you without your pack.” 

“Watch your tongue when you speak to the Prince,” rumbles Geralt warningly. 

“Ooo _ kay _ ,” says Jaskier, feeling rather as though the situation’s gotten away from him. “Maybe tone it down with the alpha male posturing? Sire, c’mon, did you  _ see _ how he fought? We need that. Or, you know, not  _ me _ , but you guys need it. Or-” he darts a glance to the side, eyes those biceps. “Or maybe, yeah, I need it.” 

Gwaine claps him on the shoulder again. Jaskier feels rather as though he’s doing it as a show of  _ something _ , because Geralt growls deep in his chest. He sighs, loudly. 

“Okay, so that’s a no then?” 

“Yes,” the two say in unison. Jaskier blinks, decides not to point out the conflicting messages, and trots out the door hoping they’ll follow his lead instead of getting into a fight or something. To his relief, Geralt shoulders past him bodily, looking all princely as he strides over to fetch Roach. Jaskier hangs back to bump a companionable shoulder with Gwaine.    
“If you’re ever in the area…” 

“I’ll pop in to say hello, little bard,” Gwaine says, grinning again. “You stay safe, now.” 

-

“You could’ve used him,” Jaskier informs Geralt when they’re already well on their way back. He still wants to sleep in a real bed, but it’s probably a lost cause at this point. “Really, Geralt, did you-” 

“You,” Geralt begins, teeth gritted tightly, “cannot do that.” 

Jaskier blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re representing Camelot,” he says, coldly. “You’re an embarrassment to me and the crown. Going off with a man you just met- a  _ Griffin- _ like a whore.” 

“A whore,” he repeats. There’s something bubbling in his chest, hurt and anger and confusion, because he’s done this before and Geralt has turned a blind eye. God, he knows Geralt’s all important and royal and stop, but- “Right, because you’ve never-” 

“Do not speak to your Prince like that,” Geralt snaps, “Or I will have you put in the stocks.” 

Jaskier closes his mouth with an audible click. He could send the Prince flying from his horse, if he wanted, or turn him into a frog- but he doesn’t. He keeps a lock on his magic, tight in his chest, shoulders tense as a string from his lute. 

They walk back in silence. 

-

“He’s just so  _ rude _ ,” Jaskier bemoans to an ancient and possibly omnipotent dragon. The dragon hums sympathetically. 

“Be that as it may, he is-” 

“My destiny,” Jaskier finishes, gloomily. “I know, Kilgharrah, you’ve only said it a thousand times. I just don’t understand why  _ me _ .” 

“You are magic, young warlock,” the dragon intones a little pompusly. “Only you can guide the Once and Future King to uniting Albion.” 

“But he’s so rude! How can I guide him anywhere when he’s calling me a whore? I can’t just punch a king, that’ll get me beheaded!” 

“Don’t punch him,” the dragon says after a long moment. It sounds like he really thought about it, which is gratifying. Jaskier gives him an absentminded pat on the nose from where his head is sitting next to him, terrifyingly bigger than his whole body. “Perhaps don’t sleep with-” 

“Don’t you  _ start _ ,” Jaskier growls, flopping down to lie on his back. 

-

  
Jaskier is lounging on a windowsill, avoiding his duties, when Yennefer sweeps to a stop right in front of him. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, and then catches himself and sits up a little straighter. “Uh, I mean- hello, my lady, what can I do for you?” 

She regards him in an unimpressed sort of way, and then unexpectedly sits next to him. He resists the urge to shudder- she’s so  _ freaky _ . It’s those purple eyes of hers, and the air of evil wrong-doing that follows her like a cloud. “Jaskier,” she says, imperiously. “I need a favor.” 

A favor can mean sex, which he can do, or it could mean not sex, which he is significantly worse at. He hopes it’s the former, even though he doesn’t really feel a  _ spark _ with Yennefer. “Yeah?” 

“I know you’re a sorcerer,” she says, confidingly. He chokes on air, startled enough that he almost falls through the window into the courtyard far, far below. He’d suggest moving, but he thinks that might get him shoved and that’s precarious. 

“I- excuse me, what, I’d  _ never- _ oh, bugger it,” he says, because she looks all smug and sure of herself. “What gave it away?” 

“You keep floating the Prince’s laundry up and down the stairs,” Yennefer says. “It’s really-” 

“It’s heavy,” Jaskier says, defensively. “He puts his chainmail in there too, even though that’s  _ so _ not where it goes, but when I try to take it out he gets all pissy.” A long pause. “Are you going to kill me?” 

“What?” she looks honestly startled. “Of course not. I hardly do what the king asks, either. Anyways, you’re so harmless it’s annoying.” 

“Hey,” he protests, a little weakly. It’s hard to be that upset when he’d just narrowly avoided his head on the chopping block. 

“My maid, Triss,” Yennefer continues. “You know her?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Jaskier says, perking up. “She’s grand. What about her?” 

“I want you to pass along a message from me,” Yennefer tells him, self assured enough that he almost misses that he’s literally being asked to give pass a note. Like a child. 

“Uh,” he says, slowly. “Like- seriously?” 

“Why would I be joking,” she snaps, handing him a sealed letter. It doesn’t look like a love note, but one can never be too sure. 

“But she’s  _ your _ maid, you go find her!” 

“I gave her the day off,” Yennefer says, dismissively. “Go on, now.” 

“Why’d you have to tell me you know about my-” he wriggles his fingers. 

“So you’ll owe me,” she says cheerfully. 

That’s fair enough. Jaskier slides from his perch and trots off to find Triss. 

When he finds her, she goes red all over at the letter. “Is it a love letter?” he asks, curiously. 

“No,” Triss yelps, snapping at him with her hand towel. “Go annoy someone else!” 

He feels rather as though he’s been allowed a glimpse into a book he’s not allowed to read. “Are you fucking, at least?” 

This next snap of the towel lands directly on his cheek, and he yelps and goes with his head hanging. Brutal, the lot of them. 

-

“My dear boy,” Gaius says when he trudges into their room. It means he wants something. Jaskier sighs, long and loud, takes a moment to mourn his horrible lumpy bed and the night they could’ve shared. 

“What do you want?” 

Gaius looks affronted, but not enough to deny it. “I need some herbs.” He hands over a list and a rustic looking basket. “If something tries to eat you, don’t let it.” 

“Like, the plants might try to eat me?” Jaskier asks, honestly curious as he swings a fun little cloak around his shoulders. It’s a bit nippy out. “Or-” 

“A monster,” he says, thoughtfully. “But I suppose it wouldn’t be out of the question for a plant-” 

“I hate Camelot,” Jaskier mutters, treasonously, and stops with great ire all the way into the forest. 

It’s actually a really nice forest. All green trees and sparkling streams and dappled moonlight, and he always has a little entourage of creatures sniffling at him hopefully. “If I had apples I’d eat them myself, sorry,” he informs them, sounding a little tragic. He’s quite hungry. (He often is, because being the prince’s manservant doesn’t pay extraordinarily well and neither does being the physician’s apprentice and also he’s kept running all the fucking time. But his clothes kind of hang attractively, so he’ll deal.) 

It’s not quite nighttime, but it’s close enough that everything has gone purple. It’s quiet and peaceful. Jaskier thinks that probably several people would be upset if he slept out here, but… he’s very tired. It’s quiet, and his stomach sort of aches, and he’s just been so  _ busy _ . He’d forgotten his lute in his room, that’s how overworked he is. 

“Right-o,” he mutters to himself, settling with his back up against a tree and his cape swung over him like a makeshift blanket. “This’ll do.” 

When he wakes, there’s a Knight of Camelot standing over him and a fawn with her head stubbornly in Jaskier’s lap. 

“Er,” he says. The knight rolls his cats eyes. 

“You’re the Prince’s manservant, yes?” 

“Pleasure to meet you,” says Jaskier charmingly, because he’s rather handsome. “Sir…?” 

“Leon,” says Sir Leon, extending a hand. Jaskier takes it and feels a little bad when the fawn skitters off as he’s pulled to his feet. 

“I’m sure his lordship is calling for me,” he says, cheerfully. 

Sir Leon squints. “And the physician. He thought you might’ve been eaten. It is past noon,” he agrees. 

Jaskier nods, sagely. His duties start at dawn. “So I’m in trouble?” 

“Yes,” rumbles Geralt from out of fucking  _ nowhere _ . Jaskier jumps so hard he sends his wicker basket flying into the underbrush. 

“Good  _ god _ , you- I mean, hello, my lord, sire, I’ve just- I just sat down to rest my eyes!” 

“Why were you sleeping in the forest?” 

Jaskier rubs at his arms a little uncomfortably. He has a feeling this might end with him in the stocks again- last time hadn’t been so bad, because he kept catching the vegetables in his mouth and impressed the Lower City enough they’d started throwing real food, but he still doesn’t want a repeat. He’d had to scrub the taste of rotten tomato out of his mouth for a week. “I’m sorry?” he tries, hopeful. 

“Leon, go.” 

Jaskier watches him leave a little forlornly and clutches his discarded cloak a little closer to his chest. “Please don’t yell at me.” 

There’s a long silence, aside from the chattering of forest creatures gathering. He fidgets uncomfortably, trying not to look too guilty. When’s the last time he ate? He can’t remember, and he’s still so tired, and if he gets fired he won’t be able to fufill his stupid destiny and the dragon will yell at him or eat him or something horrible. 

“What are your duties?” Geralt asks, unexpectedly. Jaskier chances an upward glance, confused. 

“Uh- for you? Laundry. Baths. I clean your room, make the bed, bring your meals, pour your wine? Polish your armour, your sword, your boots. Dress you. I suppose I sometimes… brush your hair?” 

Geralt nods. “And your other duties?” 

He’s going to be honest when he says he has no fucking clue where this is going. At least the prince sounds relatively calm. “For- uh, for Gaius, I’m supposed to clean the room? He has me help with the, you know. The sick people. Sometimes he has me mix medicines, but usually I just deliver them. Right now I was supposed to- uh. I was supposed to gather herbs, just…” he trails off, rubbing at his arms again. “Look, I really am sorry, I didn’t mean to- I know I’m a shit servant, but I didn’t mean to fall asleep out here.” 

“You are a shit servant,” Geralt agrees, thoughtfully. “How old are you, Jaskier?” 

Is he in trouble? He has no fucking clue. Still: “er. Nineteen?”

“And where are you from?” 

“Ealdor, sire. Why are you-” 

“Hush,” says Geralt. “I’ve known you for a year, yes?” 

Jaskier kicks at the ground, battling against himself to not make a stupid joke or flee. “Yes, sire. Almost.” 

“And I don’t know anything about you but that you’re a bard who’s saved my life… more times than I’d like to admit.” 

His mouth goes dry. “I don’t understand-” 

“The witch,” says Geralt, one dismissive hand waving. “The poisoned goblet.” His eyes are so sharp when he looks at Jaskier. “You’re no servant, are you?” 

“I’m a bard,” Jaskier agrees, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. 

“I suppose you are,” says the Prince- he turns and begins to head back towards the castle. “You have the day off. Get some rest.” 

“Yes, sire,” Jaskier says, shakily- his legs feel like pudding, and he has to sit. Why can’t Geralt get to know him like an actual regular person? 

-

When he returns to the castle, Gaius is waiting for him with that eyebrow. He almost wishes he had gotten eaten, or run through with the Prince’s sword. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pictured: me very confidently pretending that all this is just setting a scene for the main plot that is DEFINITELY COMING... actually im sorry this is just very fun to write. im coming up with a plot as we speak though

**Author's Note:**

> a clarification for ME to make: i did not rewatch merlin for this so this is just based off the knowledge i have from adoring it with my whole heart!! i thought this would be a funny crossover so i did it 
> 
> i love you 
> 
> if u like this pls leave a comment, also if u like this send me an ask or smth over at redjewelsforeyes.tumblr.com!
> 
> next chapter should be up tomorrow :)


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